


It Began With a Royal Sticky Mess...

by TheLightFury



Series: The Final Straw [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Mild Language, Occlumency, Post-War, Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 19:30:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18629821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/pseuds/TheLightFury
Summary: Prompt: Draco makes fun of Harry who just cries because he’s having a shit day. Cue Draco panicking because he hadn’t been that mean, and he didn’t want to make the saint cry.Where Harry is very depressed, and Draco is coping with Eighth Year in his own way.Never before had Harry been allowed to cry... A primal need that had been squashed, suffocated, yet secretly desired for as long as Harry could remember latched onto the comfort, the freedom, the safety... He couldn’t go back to pretending, to being strong; couldn’t go back to the loneliness.





	It Began With a Royal Sticky Mess...

**Author's Note:**

> So I found this prompt a while back and wrote a short thing called 'What He Needed' for it, but before doing that got carried away with this! There is going to be a part 2 at some point, but here's the first part. Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and thank you so much for reading!

“NO!”

Harry sat bolt upright, voice hoarse, sweat pouring off his brow. His heart was hammering, his clothes clung to him, icy cold coursed around his bloodstream and his entire body shook. The images of Voldemort, green light, and Ron and Hermione clinging desperately to each other as they fell swam before his eyes.

Frantically, he untangled the blankets around him, blindly scrambling out of bed to shove the closest window to him open. As he gasped for a breath of clean air, free from the scent of death and sweat, he repeated the same 4 words, eyes squeezed closed:  _ Voldemort’s dead. Everyone’s safe _ .  _ Voldemort’s dead. Everyone’s safe _ .  _ Voldemort’s dead. Everyone’s safe _ .

Slowly, oh so slowly, his breathing returned to normal, helped by the gentle breeze and warmth from the sun of autumn that caressed his face. As the panic receded, he opened his eyes, drinking in the hazy mass of colourful trees, the lush grass, and the beautiful, cloudless blue sky.

It should have been comforting.

It should have made him glad to be alive.

But it didn’t.

He was lying to himself; everyone wasn’t safe. Everything wasn’t fine. Everything still fucking  _ hurt. _

It had been 5 months since the end of The Second War. 5. Long. Months. The trials were mostly over, Hogwarts had been restored, the fallen had been honoured, new laws were being passed, and new measures taken at Hogwarts to encourage inter-house unity. Student morale had grown. Studying had taken priority once again, and the threat of the most difficult exams a witch or wizard could face was mentioned at least once a week.

Everything was normal.

Everyone had moved on. Everyone was happy. May was just a memory.

But not for him.

No matter how hard he tried, The War still haunted him. His nightmares had never stopped. If anything, they’d gotten worse; in his dreams, he watched helplessly as Voldemort killed him, McGonagall, Molly, Hagrid, Ron, Hermione,  _ anyone, _ leaving him a pathetic, sweaty mess on too regular a basis. During the day, his senses were always on high alert; he jumped at the slightest noise, hand always gripping his wand, waiting for the next attack, leaving him drained at the end of the day. But the worst thing was the grief. At random moments throughout the day, his mind would wander, dredging up memories of someone’s laugh, someone’s handwriting, someone’s hair style, and suddenly a void would open in his chest. Invisible forces would grip him, clawing at his heart, dousing him in pain, knocking the breath from his lungs. The sheer force of the pain would immobilise him, halting him no matter where he was or what he was doing; paralysed in despair.

The first time it happened he’d almost passed out, the sudden onslaught of emotion overwhelming his senses. Gradually, however, the moments where grief wreaked havoc with his body became a normal part of his day. A routine reminder that they’d lost Fred. Remus. Tonks. Hedwig. Colin.  _ Dobby _ . And too many more.

Everyone wasn’t safe.

Everyone wasn’t fine.

They never would be.

They were never coming back.

Sighing, he rested his head against the cool stone surrounding the window, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. Sometimes, particularly mornings like these, he didn’t even know why he was here. What was the point in studying? It wouldn’t change anything. They’d still be dead. He couldn’t give a hairy hippogriff’s arse about his qualifications. He’d already got job offers from just about everywhere, it wasn’t like he  _ needed _ NEWTs.

But he couldn’t deny that Hogwarts had helped; even when he could barely get out of bed, immobilised by the anguish and torment of grief, something appeared as a distraction. It took his mind off the loss, made the pain slightly more bearable, and reminded him of everything that was safe from Voldemort’s ruthless grasp. It gave him the strength to make it through the day.

But for that distraction to appear, he had to get showered, dressed, and leave the tower. 

_ That  _ required a whole lot of energy.

The urge to crawl back under his covers crashed over him like a tidal wave. All those years completing his morning routine automatically seemed like a dream to him now; how had he not realised how much effort it took to just get dressed?!

Resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall, he fought his way through the weariness of life across the room, resolutely ignoring the bed. He was certain the day would get better if he just went to breakfast. 

It had to, right?

*

Draco rolled his eyes as Finnegan’s cauldron exploded, decorating everything within a 2 meter radius of him in green, smelly slime. Honestly, how that dunderhead had managed to get into NEWT level potions was beyond him.

There wasn’t much that truly entertained him nowadays, and Finnegan’s failures were no exception; The War had changed his entire world. Serving the Dark Lord had felt like constantly being in the presence of a Dementor; all the joy in the world was sucked away, leaving barrenness, darkness and devastation in its wake. He’d lived under constant threat of death and endured countless  _ Crucio’s  _ for all of his mistakes and failures. Nightmares had haunted him, terrorising him both day and night. Cold seeped into his very bones, ensuring he never felt warm, and anxiety harassed him like a wolf hunted its prey. 

Although the Dark Lord had been defeated, Draco still felt his presence, like a cold cloak, constantly draped over his shoulders, trying to spread chills down his neck. Even 5 months on, his waking moments were filled with constant reminders of his guilt; the empty spaces in the Great Hall, the unfilled seats in lessons, the missing names on the register. 

The Mark. 

Not to mention the physical damage caused by the Dark Lord’s punishment. Each day he was tormented by muscle spasms in his back, legs, arms, stomach. They hit without warning, and, like their master, had no mercy. They made him buckle, gasping for breath, tears springing into his eyes as every muscle clenched against his will, crushing any glimmers of hope from the inside out. Not that he had much left anyway. 

It was overwhelming.

But he couldn’t show weakness. Wouldn’t. He couldn’t give his fellow students, who scorned, watched,  _ hounded  _ him even, the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. He’d proved himself a coward too many times before. Not this year. He had a reputation to build, a family name to earn respect to; he was determined to act like nothing had changed. He was a Malfoy. Malfoy’s coped. Malfoy’s adjusted and survived, thrived even. They succeeded in the face of despair, continuing on, head held high, ignoring the scorn around them impassively. 

So he used Occlumency.

Night and day, from the moment he woke up, to the moment he went to sleep, Draco practiced keeping his mind empty. Quiet. Blank. As taunts, hexes, pain, memories and emotions threatened to crush him, bury him, break him, he would stop, breathe, and sink into a calm, empty state; protected. There, he suppressed the memories, emotions, thoughts, sights, smells, touches and anything else that provoked a reaction, locking them away carefully, securely, so they were unable to disturb his cool exterior. 

Once they were soundly controlled, no longer a threat, he would slowly, carefully introduce one thought at a time, checking for any emotional disturbance. Any sign his mask and control was compromised. If it was, he returned to emptying his mind before checking his defenses again, ensuring all threats were definitely neutralised. If all was clear, he tentatively moved on, superficially re-engaging with everyday life. 

Since the beginning of the trials, Draco had practiced this. It had started as a way to cope before the Wizengamot, to maintain his composure, to testify that he could be, and would be, a better man than his father. But following his acquittal, relentless torment had followed and he’d found himself longing for numbness, for impassivity, for control over his emotions. So he’d become a master at stopping, disconnecting, and clearing his mind when emotions, memories, and pain threatened to consume him. Now he was able to complete his school work, function, smile, laugh when appropriate, eat, shower, all without issue. He hadn’t retaliated once when the whispers, taunts, sometimes even hexes followed him. He hadn’t shown the depth any pain as his muscles contorted in agony. He’d merely detached himself, transcending the situation. 

But, as a consequence he felt like an onlooker to his entire life. He was alive, but not connected to anything. It was like he was observing his life through a lens, ready to analyse, criticise, and improve. Like a machine. 

If he was paying attention to his emotions, he might have considered himself lonely, depressed, drained. But such contemplation had no place in his life. He was preserving his dignity, rebuilding his reputation. That was more important. Someone needed to demonstrate dignity, finesse, sophistication. Someone needed to redeem the Malfoy name. 

He was that someone. 

Even if he had to suffer the presence of buffoons like Finnegan in the meantime, unable to tell the difference between asphodel and wormwood. Stupid leprechaun.

As the smoke cleared from the dungeon, however, Draco’s eyes fell on one very green, very sticky Golden Boy. Perhaps Finnegan’s skills as a potions maker weren’t entirely disappointing after all.

Potter was covered in the exploded potion, which, fortunately for him, was meant to be a mild healing balm at this stage. Not that it would heal Potter’s humongous ego, of course; what a pity. His usually unruly hair was plastered to his head at all angles, glasses and face entirely smothered in the substance. His shirt and trousers were decidedly green, clearly sticking to him uncomfortably, and the air around him visibly vibrated with waves of odourous steam rolling off him. He looked ridiculous. 

Draco allowed himself to sneer, malicious as always, as the rest of the class erupted into laughter around him, a single flicker of true amusement running through him. Potter merely stood, the potion slowly dripping off him, as Granger tried to spell the goop off of his glasses with little effect. As soon as the glasses were clean, more potion slipped off his awful hair onto them, obscuring his vision once again. 

It was  _ delightful.  _ The Saviour of the Wizarding World, the almighty ponce himself, bested by a potion. 

It was true that Draco didn’t hate the Gryffindor anymore, if he was honest, but he certainly didn’t like him. Potter was just as much of a prick as he was before, preening for all the attention, acting the hero, being a teacher’s pet… Even if he had fought the Dark lord and won, saved everyone and himself personally, lobbied for new laws that improved the welfare of others and financially supported charities that Draco himself thought worthy, he was still an areshole! For that, Draco still disliked him. For that, he would get under his skin (and apparently today, goop). 

Taunting Potter was one of the only pleasures Draco had left in his life. One of the only things that didn’t threaten his emotional control. It was as natural as breathing, and fortunately, Potter, the wonderful little hero that he was, always thoughtfully provided opportunity. Today, for example, the Boy Who Lived had been given a monstrosity of a gift at breakfast, a giant teddy bear the size of the great oaf, Hagrid, from one of his simpering fans; he’d had his trousers accidentally and irreversibly transfigured into a bright pink ballet tutu by Hannah Abbott, forcing him to walk back to the Eighth Year tower in front of the entire school, and  _ then _ he’d been hit soundly on the arm by a stray bludger at lunch. It must have been one of Golden (well, green) Boy’s most spectacularly awful days in his life, and Draco wasn’t about to miss this wonderful opportunity to rub it in. Metaphorically of course; there was no way he was touching  _ that  _ abomination.

He watched as a wan smile passed over Wonder Boy’s face, the class still laughing at his expense. When he was excused to ‘ _ Freshen up,’ _ Draco jumped at the chance to slip out behind him, his exit missed amid the joint efforts to put the room to rights.

Outside, Potter was slowly walking towards the nearest suit of armour. Draco watched, amused, as at the last second the dolt realised he was about to collide with something, abruptly stopping.

“Preparing for Halloween, Potter?” He sneered, as the git tried to move his gunky hair out of his eyes, not that it would help him.

“Practicing for a costume contest? Bit early, isn’t it? Is the suit of armour going to be your date? Or is it going to be that fan from this morning? Going to go show off your new look? Bet she’ll love that!” 

He laughed, loud, long, clear, relishing the way it echoed off the stone walls. It was the same laugh he’d perfected years ago; haughty, derogatory, cold. It never failed to get a rise out of Potter, drawing him into every argument, every exchange, whilst cleverly concealing his desperation for the Gryffindor’s reply, the fuel for his cold, miserable existence. It was all a game, and right now, it was the only thing left of his former life that remained unchanged. His only sense of normality. 

He literally lived for this one pleasure.

*

The chorus of laughter around him echoed as Harry's heart sunk lower and lower. On any other day, Seamus’ ability to blow anything up would have been funny, especially on this scale; the ceiling above him looked as though someone had spray painted it green, drips periodically splashing onto the floor around him. Hermione and Nott had to quickly cover their cauldrons to prevent contaminating their own, perfect potions, and almost everyone in the immediate vicinity had been peppered with the potion in some way. Any other day, being plastered in a potion that seemed to ooze out of every fold of clothing, every orifice even, would have been a good laugh. But not today. 

The entire day had been a disaster. Every hour seemed to get worse, bringing new humiliation, frustration; a new level of depression. Nothing helped. Even a friendly quidditch game with Ron, Ginny, Dean, Seamus and Luna had failed to make him feel better, thanks to getting battered by a bludger. He winced again, the memory of the angry ball colliding with his bicep fresh and painful. At least now he knew now never to trust Dean with a bat. 

He should have just stayed in bed that morning. His instincts had been right. Today was not the day for him. So why,  _ why,  _ had he allowed Hermione to convince him to go to potions?! He was literally asking for trouble! The dungeons always made him feel uneasy now, even on good days. Something about seeing Snape’s memories after he’d died and sitting in the same room he taught in made his stomach squirm, even with Slughorn’s new decor. Even without that, something always went wrong, anyway; the wrong ingredient was added, he read the instructions incorrectly, or he burned himself on the cauldron. It was obvious Potions was his worst subject, even without Snape. Yet still, here he was. Playing the part. Being the student he was supposed to be now that he didn’t have a madman to kill, ignoring the discomfort. 

Just like always. 

He'd just been fetching some extra ingredients he’d forgotten earlier, when he'd heard Dean swear. The hair on the back of his neck stood up; he knew what that meant. Everyone in Gryffindor knew what that meant. But there was no time. Before he could react, a deluge of hot green sludge erupted from the cauldron, covering him from head to toe. 

The perfect gooey icing on the really shit cake.

There had been a beat of silence as the smoke cleared, just the one, but he treasured it. As his classmates roared around him, he craved the quiet, the stillness, the peace. He tried to smile with his classmates, but he couldn't. Everything was too loud, to draining, too… sticky. He just wanted to sleep. 

Why couldn’t he just fade into oblivion, right now? Just disappear, away from Slughorn who was chortling away, his classmates who were doubled over in laughter, and the pain that had hounded him all day. Couldn’t he just sink into darkness, warm, safe, dry, and stay there for as long as he liked? As Neville fell off his chair laughing, he sighed. Of course not.

Within a few moments he’d been excused, dragging his squelching body out into what he hoped was a deserted corridor. Without any assurance that he was going in the right direction, his legs moved automatically, one in front of the other, hopefully carrying him towards his bed. The sudden appearance of a person-shaped outline and a large object to his left indicated otherwise. 

Oh for fuck’s sake.

He stopped, kneading the palm of his hand against his forehead, willing the ground to open up around him. Everything was too hard; his legs felt as though they were glued to the floor, heavy, like lead, impossible to move, his chest felt as though it was being clawed at, despair devouring him, and even breathing was difficult, each inhale and exhale painful, slow. 

Not worth it. 

Defeat rolled through his body, slow, dense, suffocating. As lessons continued around him, his world stopped; pain rampaged through him, numbing all other sensations. Why couldn’t he just fade away? 

“Preparing for Halloween, Potter?”

Malfoy's haughty drawl cut through the air. Harry’s eyes slipped closed, as cold slammed into him. Surely it was a mistake, a hallucination. Malfoy couldn’t have followed him, not now. He couldn’t fight anymore.

“Practicing for a costume contest? Bit early, isn’t it? Is the suit of armour going to be your date? Or is it going to be that fan from this morning? Going to go show off your new look? Bet she’ll love that.”

Glee literally dripped from Malfoy’s words, taunting him, dying to draw him in, to fight. Harry’s heart pounded, jaw clenched as adrenaline coursed through him. The tiniest spark of anger fluttered through him. What was his problem?!  _ Why  _ couldn’t he just  _ leave him alone?!  _ Why did he have to choose right now? Hadn’t his day been bad enough? Hadn’t they fought enough in the past? Wasn’t he done fighting? Couldn’t they just move on?! 

Yet anger wasn’t the emotion that was winning. As the adrenaline pumped around his body, his limbs became weaker, not stronger. His heart seemed to falter on every beat, shaking, unsteady, just like his breathing. His stomach, initially cold with sparks of rage was thawing, churning like ice in a river rapid, desperate to stay afloat, yet sinking beneath the turmoil. Nausea and pain consumed him, tears springing into his eyes. 

He gulped, half-hoping his breathing would calm down, a pitifully small instinct begging to fight, to insult Malfoy, to turn around and hex him. But he couldn’t. Malfoy’s taunts had unleashed a tidal wave of emotion. 

He couldn’t fight it.

He surrendered to the emotion.

*

Draco readied himself, hand on his wand, prepared for anything. Any moment now... 

But Potter didn’t move. He didn’t turn around, didn’t reach for his wand, didn’t utter a word. Instead, he merely dropped his head forward, as if it was suddenly too heavy to carry upright.

Confusion threatened Draco's sneer. Surely it was a ploy, just a delay tactic whilst the git came up with a come back or decided which spell to fire his way. Probably  _ Expelliarmus  _ knowing him! Honestly, the prat really needed to learn to use another spell! 

With a start, however, Draco realised that Potter’s gunk covered shoulders were tensing and trembling, jittering up and down every so slightly, as if his breathing was irregular, stinted, desperate.

“Potter?” Draco edged towards him, an uneasy feeling knotting in his stomach as he tried to get a view of the ooze covered face. The sound of ragged breathing met his ears, huffing exhales, followed by unsteady, gasping gulps of breath.

What? But that would mean… Why would…  

Keeping a wide berth, just in case it was a trap, Draco stepped around the slimy man, eyes widening when he caught sight of two clear rivulets cutting a path through the botched potion, one on each cheek.

For a second, Draco was rooted to the spot, all control forgotten as pure shock barreled it's way through his defenses. 

Harry Potter was crying! 

*

Years of pain, bottled up or channeled into anger for fuel, survival, flooded his chest. Despair, anguish, agony, and torment all battled to escape their prison first, choking him, drowning him. He scrabbled for air, but the mass of emotion blocked his throat, hard and unforgiving. His lungs burned, tears fell hot and fast onto his cheeks, and strangled sounds escaped with what little breath he had left. Just when a faint ringing had begun in his ears, his chest suddenly heaved, leaving him gasping past the lump in his throat.

All at once, he was overcome with sobs; loud, painful, wracking sobs. His chest ached, his lungs spasmed, cries ripped almost unbearably from his throat and echoed embarrassingly off the walls, but he didn’t care. He knew Malfoy was still stood behind him, watching him crumble, listening to him fall apart, but it didn’t matter.

He was done.

Done pretending he was fine. Done being the Saviour of the Wizarding World, everyone’s pawn. Done being an idol, rather than a teenager. 

He couldn’t fight anymore.

*

Panic, actual, visceral, undeniable,  _ terrifying  _ panic engulfed Draco in the blink of an eye. What was Potter playing at?! He was supposed to be the Saviour of the Wizarding World, and he was crying.  _ Actually crying! _ Tears and goop were streaming off his face, his body was body wracked by deep, soul wrenching sobs. Seemingly just because he’d been teased! Which, at this precise moment in time, he deserved to be, looking like a green slime monster!

Potter’s emotional outburst would have been funny if he didn’t seem to be so devastated. Draco had never seen him properly cry before, not this close anyway. There was that one time when he’d brought Diggory’s body back at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, but that was to be expected! The Hufflepuff had been murdered in front of him! But Harry Potter, Saint of the Wizarding World, Wonder Boy Extraordinaire didn’t cry over tiny little insults. Not like this! He hadn’t been  _ that mean!  _ Had he?!  _ Fuck! _

“What’s wrong with you?” He spluttered, voice coming out harsher than he intended. Potter didn’t react, sobbing earnestly, a puddle of green, steaming, malodorous potion forming on the floor around him.

Draco’s heart raced, eyes darting around the deserted corridor; what should he do?! If anyone found them there, he’d definitely get the blame for reducing Wonder Boy to a snivelling mess, especially one that made Longbottom in First Year look like a roaring lion!

“D-Do you want me to get Granger and the Weas- I mean Weasley?... Potter?!” Draco winced at the high pitch of his voice, but the man was a wreck! He wasn’t supposed to cry, he was supposed to get annoyed and throw insults at him, leaving them both pissed off for hours! It was their  _ thing! _

Potter merely shook his head ever so slightly as the tears continued to roll freely down, juddering breaths ripping through him.

“Potter I…” He stuttered, breath stopping in his throat as foreign words threatened to spring forth. He just needed Potter to stop crying, immediately, then he could put this whole thing behind them and resume cold, detached normality. He had to try.

“I’m sorry.” He gulped. Potter’s sobbing continuing as if Draco hadn’t just uttered the two most difficult words in the world to put together. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you, I didn’t know, it wasn’t meant to… Please stop crying! What can I do?” He rambled. Honestly, it was as like he was turning into a Hufflepuff! 

Potter shook his head again, lips forming a series of pained sounds that may or may not have been an attempt to utter a coherent sentence. 

“ _ Angm-hh.”  _

What the fuck was  _ that?!  _ Did the prat honestly think that was  _ helpful?!  _

Draco wracked his brains for a solution, ignoring the extra green fluid that was now fighting to exit Potter’s nose. Disgusting.

Suddenly a painful idea struck him. Literally struck him.  _ Painfully.  _ The idea pounded his head like a hammer. 

It was horrific. It was inhumane. It was beneath him, and bound to get him assaulted.

But it might be his only choice. 

Gulping back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, he stepped towards Potter. 

Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around the shaking man, channelling all his months of practice in Occlumency to clear his mind of the repugnant sensations. He didn’t want to know that the slime was warm and sticking to his usually flawless skin with surprising strength, or that the odious smell worsened exponentially with increased proximity, thank you very much! Every inch of him begged him to run away, to extract himself, to have a scalding hot shower to cleanse him from the germs he must have picked up by now. But Potter sounded ready to choke on his own breath, shuddering against him, and the panic held him against his will. Swallowing hard, he held Potter loosely, trying to block out the sniffles, squelches and snot. 

*

It was like a waterfall, unrelenting tears and sobs gushing out of him. The longer he stood there, Malfoy rambling, the harder he cried. He didn’t even care that Malfoy was there and would probably tell the entire school he was weeping like a baby. Nothing mattered anymore. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. He just wanted the pain to be over.  _ Needed  _ to be real for once.

So he cried. Unashamedly. Loudly. Sinking into the despair and pain that always bubbled beneath the surface, welcoming it like a sick old friend. The school, the corridor, even Malfoy faded away. All that mattered, all that he knew, was the warmth on his cheeks from the tears, and the ripping of his throat from the harsh sobs. 

*

Potter didn’t react, why wouldn’t he react?! How was he, Draco Malfoy, supposed to handle and cope with a Boy Who Lived who was trembling and hiccupping against him, sobbing incessantly? How was he supposed to help here?! 

As the sobs continued to rip through the Gryffindor, Draco found his arms tightening around Potter of their own accord, just slightly, but enough to hold him more securely. A few moments later, he was guiding the git’s sticky head to his shoulder, grimacing at the contact. The usually black hair spread gunk on his crisp shirt and neck, sticky, warm, and repellant. Yet as Potter’s chest heaved against, Draco found himself ignoring the churning in his stomach, pressing himself ever closer, trying to put as little distance between them as possible.  

Merlin’s saggy tits, if only his Father could see him now...

*

Slowly, another sensation greeted Harry. Warmth was slowly enveloping him, starting at his chest, firm, but soft, gradually making its way around his back. Amidst the gulps for air, new smells reached him, apple, like a shampoo, and slight sweat from hard work. Suddenly, he found his head resting on a hard surface covered by soft fabric, catching the tears as they fell. The distant sound of a steady thud met his ear; a heart beat.

Even in his emotionally wrecked state, he found his breath stammering, and it wasn’t because of grief.

Malfoy was hugging him. Actually hugging him, pulling him closer, adjusting his head for him, being…  _ gentle _ .

Another sob tore through him, shaking his body, and he found himself more tightly held against his old nemesis. 

Supported. 

Safe. 

Every touch, every rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest sent heat shooting across his skin, giving him goosebumps. It should have been awkward, cringeworthy, made him want to run, hide, to cry somewhere else, but it didn’t. 

Yearning, gratitude, and sheer relief bloomed in his chest. 

Never before had he been allowed to cry; at a very young age, he’d learned that crying was rewarded with lack of food, an extended stay in the cupboard, and a beating from Dudley. Crying wasn’t worth it, it didn’t help him. So he stopped, fighting as hard as he could to remain in control, only occasionally letting silent tears slip past his defenses at night if things were truly overwhelming. Since then he’d only cried in emergencies, and even then, not for long. There was always something else to do, someone else to see, a killer to catch. He had to be strong, the world looked to him, the world  _ needed  _ him to be calm, in control. 

But here, in a deserted corridor, covered in slime, with his arch nemesis, at the age of 17, he was given permission. Malfoy just held him, gently, kindly, but firmly, letting him know he was there. He let Harry rest his sticky head on his shoulder, even  _ encouraged  _ him to do so. He stood there, taking the tears, the pain, the heartbreak. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t try and stop the tears. He didn’t even tell him it would be okay, as if he could tell the future and know exactly what hurt so much right now. He just let Harry cry, hugging him as he sobbed.

A primal need that had been squashed, suffocated, yet secretly desired for as long as Harry could remember latched onto the comfort, the freedom, the safety with all it’s might, winding Harry’s fingers into Malfoy’s shirt. He didn’t want this to end. He couldn’t go back to pretending, to being strong; couldn’t go back to the loneliness. He needed Malfoy to stay, to hold him, for as long as it took. 

*

Another sob escaped Potter, bringing Draco’s attention sharply back to the mess in his arms. Just in time, apparently; Potter, the prat, appeared to be trying to cling onto him, curling one set of filthy fingers into Draco’s shirt, whilst the other arm almost crushed the breath out of him. The idiot was so insistent, so enthusiastic he actually put Draco off balance. Perfect! You try and help someone and they make you reek to the gods, cover you in sludge and almost knock you over in the process! Thanks!

Still cursing him internally, Draco attempted to recenter himself, gain more stability for both of them, but almost toppled over again when a particularly wounded sound met his ears, full of panic and pain. Without warning, Draco’s shirt tightened around his neck as Potter fisted it, grasping as if his life depended on it. 

_ What.  _

_ The actual.  _

_ Fuck. _

At a loss as to what else to do, Draco gently squeezed the slippery man. The vice like grip on his robes remained, desperate chokes and sniffles tearing from his throat. Draco winced, licking his lips.

“It’s okay... I’m not going anywhere.” He murmured, half-hoping the Gryffindor wouldn’t hear him. Gradually, Potter’s hold loosened, breath still juddering wildly as he resettled against Draco’s chest.

This couldn’t get any weirder. 

As the Gryffindor continued to relax, snivelling and sobbing repeatedly, Draco tried to ignore the absurdity of the situation. What in Merlin’s name had happened to Potter? Why had he been able to reduce the Saviour, the Saint Almighty to such a wreck? And how had he thought that  _ hugging him  _ would be a good idea in the first place! This was dangerous! He shouldn’t be worrying about Potter, the Boy Who ALWAYS Lived, survived, and came out on top. He should be worrying about himself, keeping his emotions in check, focusing on his future, not being someone’s cuddle bunny! This had to stop, normality had to resume, he just needed to shut everything down, stay until Potter regained some control, and then never talk to him again. He needed control, he needed to be detached, he had to  _ focus.  _

“Thank you.”

Draco gulped, suddenly acutely aware of Potter’s warmth against him, of his devastated state all over again. It was a tiny whisper, a puff of air on his neck, like so many others from Potter’s sobs, but it was like a fanfare, ringing in his ears. Something in Potter’s strangled croak resonated deep within, calling, longing to be freed. 

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t squash his emotions behind this time. The force within him was too strong, too crushing. It wouldn’t be ignored. 

Damn it, Potter, what have you done now? 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please come and find me and say hi on Tumblr, my ask box is also always open! @april-thelightfury115
> 
> Thanks again!


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